I haven't been writing and posting as often as I should this year – possible New Year's resolution there, I think. Anyway, here's a timely wee story: The Night Before Christmas. I hope you enjoy it.

Merry Christmas!

Terry stood in the conservatory waiting for Mark, his ten-year-old son, to come in from the car with the rest of the bags. It was peaceful after all the hustle and bustle of the day, dark and quiet; even the Christmas tree lights were out now, although the bright wrappings on the heaps of presents beneath its branches gleamed softly in the moonlight.

Mark crept in quietly and softly closed the outer door before Terry eased open the sliding patio door that led from the conservatory into the dining room, not wanting a sudden draught to blow in and disturb those who were sleeping. Terry and Mark were wreathed in goodwill and trailing blessings, fresh from their visit to church; midnight Mass on Christmas Eve being the only time they went other than for hatches, matches and dispatches. Mark loved singing carols – always had, ever since he was tiny and Grandma had taught him all the words to her favourites – and his voice had rung out loud and clear first in the church and then in the car on the way to the house.

The dining room looked lovely. There were fancy Christmas stockings – decorated with appliquéd Santa Clauses, Christmas trees and reindeer – hanging from the high mantelpiece, and the table was already set for dinner: gold chargers, polished cutlery and gleaming glassware laid out in front of five of the eight chairs, a decoration made from holly, ivy, and red and gold ribbons in the centre spot.

They crept silent as ghosts out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Mark opened the fridge and almost cried out in delight. It was jam-packed full of goodies; he saw a huge pork pie, a wheel of stilton, a cooked gammon joint, a ceramic tub of some sort of posh meat paste, and a trifle, ready and waiting for the hundreds and thousands that would finish it off to perfection.

Terry glanced over the boy’s shoulder. ‘They’ve done us proud,’ he said.

‘Dad, there’s no turkey.’

Terry looked around, then opened the door on the huge eye-level oven. Sure enough, there was a large roasting tray with a tinfoil-covered lump in it.

Mark grinned. ‘Wow! It looks like a whopper!’

Terry lifted the tray out of the oven and put the entire thing into the holdall he carried. Mark carefully lifted the things from the fridge and filled his rucksack. The cling-filmed trifle in its fancy glass dish went on the flat base of the holdall alongside the turkey in its tray.

Clutching something in his hand the boy looked at his father. ‘What about these?’ he whispered.

‘No, just leave them,’ Terry said, and Mark put the net of veg back into the salad crisper and closed the fridge door.

It took a few trips from the house to the car to get everything, but before long Christmas was packed carefully on the back seat and in the boot, and Terry and Mark were driving home with their spoils.

‘Mum’ll be over the moon,’ said Mark as he tucked into the contents of a selection box.

‘I don’t know how you did it, our Terry, but this is a feast fit for a king,’ said Grandma as she looked at the table, piled high with food. She patted the gold chain around her neck before reaching up and straightening her paper hat. ‘And the presents were wonderful.’

‘They were,’ said Granddad, his feet warm and toasty in his new slippers, a new watch on his wrist and a bottle of excellent tawny port in the bag to take home.

‘I had a bit put by for Christmas before I was laid off,’ said Terry, carving thick slices of turkey and putting them on plates with spoonfuls of sage and onion stuffing, and bacon-wrapped chipolatas, for Mark to hand round. He looked at his wife. ‘And Jan’s a canny shopper, always looks for the bargains.’

‘Here, Doris, let me get you some roasties and veg,’ said Jan, wanting to divert her mother-in-law’s attention away from how the feast and the gifts had been provided.

‘Thanks, pet. No sprouts, though; I don’t like sprouts.’

‘Windy fruit,’ said Granddad and Mark giggled.

‘I didn’t get any, Mam, nobody likes them,’ Terry said. He looked over at his son and they shared a smile.

***

So when you got up, it was all gone?’ asked PC Allan. He had another four hours to go until the end of his shift and he couldn’t wait to be home on the settee with a full belly, a glass of beer, and a Bond film on the telly.

‘They took everything. Food, presents, crackers … even the stuff from the table. The only thing they left was a net of sprouts.’

The policeman suppressed a smirk. ‘You’ll need a crime reference number for the insurance. Sounds like you’ll need to make a claim.’

‘Aren’t you even going to try to get it all back?’

‘We’ll try, of course, but the odds are against it, sir. Most of the evidence has very likely been consumed by now.’

Derek Cooper thought of the stolen feast, the first clue that something was wrong being the absence of the delicious smell of roasting turkey when the household had awoken on Christmas morning. The oven timer had been set the night before, so lunch would be on time despite their enjoying a lie-in.

‘Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you, sir? Maybe an ex-employee?’

Cooper looked at the policeman. ‘No,’ he said.

PC Allan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘Very well, sir.’ He closed his notebook and headed for the door. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said as he let himself out. Cooper looked around at the empty house and snorted.

***

‘Merry Christmas!’ Terry exclaimed as he raised his glass at the end of what had been a very satisfying Christmas lunch. The family chorused back at him, happy faces all round.

Shortly afterwards, Mark and his Grandma bustled back and forth, singing carols as they cleared the table and the washing up got underway.

The mood was in stark contrast to the anger he'd been surrounded by just a few weeks earlier when half the workforce – Terry included – had been paid off at Cooper's.

‘What about our bonus? Will we get our Christmas bonus?'

Derek Cooper had looked at each face in turn. 'I'm sorry, there's no money for bonuses.'

'But we've earned it!'

Cooper shook his head; he planned to pay them the bare minimum necessary to stay within the law. Not a penny more.

‘What about Christmas?’ they’d shouted. ‘It’s just a few weeks away! Couldn’t you have waited until after Christmas?’

‘Not if we hope to stay open. I'm keeping as many on as I can.'

As a bonus to him, the machines the workers had been replaced by would neither turn up hung-over nor expect a Christmas party, a bottle of whisky or a frozen turkey as a sign of appreciation for their hard work.

'But it's Christmas!' they'd repeated, wondering how on earth they were going to pay the bills, never mind buy presents. Cooper had just stolen Christmas from them.

'These are tough times for everyone,' Derek Cooper had said, then he had smiled, aiming for an expression that suggested sympathy for their plight, although no one had been fooled. They all knew he was coining it in; he'd just bought a new car, for goodness’ sake. As for sympathy, he had just looked smug; he had that sort of face.

I doubt he's looking very smug now, Terry thought as he sat back in his chair, feeling content. He had a very promising job interview lined up after the Christmas break; he hoped to be in work again early in the New Year. He heard voices raised in song from the kitchen and smiled as Mark and Grandma finished with a rousing: 'We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!'

I'm turning the blog over to Pete Sortwell today. So, Pete, why are you quitting after selling 10,000 books? Are you mad?

I’m not really quitting, but I couldn’t think of a bigger headline. I did, however, sell ten thousand e-books in one year. Here’s how it happened … One year ago, on October the 1st 2012, I hit publish on Amazon’s KDP self-publishing program. I’d spent the month before getting The Village Idiot Reviews together. It’s written in the front of the book, but for those of you that haven’t read it, I’ll tell you how and why I came about the idea in the first place.

Sadly, in August of that year I lost a very close friend, Dennis Roper. His death was something, that although not wholly unexpected, shook me and, at that time it felt like everything had changed. I wasn’t sure how I was going to move forward without my mate there by my side. I wanted to feel better and I knew that Dennis wouldn’t have wanted me sitting about miserably. Throughout the month of August there was what can only be described as uproar in the online writing community with the outing of several authors that had been caught either writing their own reviews or promoting their own work under different names, or to term it correctly ‘sock puppets’. The writing of fake reviews reminded me of the funny ones that had gone viral. (Check out Veet for men.) One evening I decided that rather than jump into any arguments (which would have been my reaction in the past, but I figured that whenever I’ve done that in RL, I usually end up in the shit myself somehow) I’d do something I’d never done before and keep my big mouth shut. I did more than that, in fact: I wrote some fake reviews of my own, The Village Idiot Reviews being the first book to link all those reviews together into a story.

I’d been watching other people on the writing scene for a while and I’d got an idea of what I didn’t want my book to look like. I knew I wanted it to look really professional both inside and out, so the only option was to use pros. Which is what I did. I’d already hooked up with an editor and proofreader, Julie Lewthwaite, while working on other, unreleased projects. I’m lucky that she’s more than just an editor, she’s also very experienced in most things I want to know and was able to point me in the right direction to find an artist. I knew I wanted something fun, so when I managed to get the services of Graham D. Lock I was over the moon. One thing though, I couldn’t afford him. So I asked to make a deal, Which was basically me saying ‘Please help me, I promise if this works I’ll use you for everything that comes after and pay your going rate.’ In fact this was the same deal I cut with everyone I worked with on TVIR. Luckily, all saw more promise in it than I did and agreed. I still thought it would be a disaster and that I’d never have to come good on my promise – not that I didn’t want to, I just wasn’t that confident in my work. I need to shout out to my mum here, also, as she actually covered half of the costs. Another thing I paid for was a decent product description; this helped, and it’s something I’ve used as a template for my other books. For no other reason than the career of the chap who did it, Mark Edwards, had taken off and his publishers think his time is better spent working on his own books. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to bring him in to my little project, though.

I pressed publish and just hoped that before I died it would recover the small cost it had taken to put out. It took less than a week to cover costs and by week two I’d had an 80 sale day and been the highest in the Kindle ranking that I’ve ever been: #314. I was just short of the top ten in humour and I was made up. If that wasn’t good enough, I started to get reviews, and some from people I didn’t know either. There was nothing for it, it was time to write another one. So I did. The Office Idiot Reviews came out in November, followed by The Idiot Government Reviews in December. By the end of 2012 I’d sold my first thousand. The bug had got me by then and in January I started a romcom; large market, I thought, lovely. However, large market means large competition. Dating In The Dark: sometimes love just pretends to be blind has done OK, though. In fact, my other works this year, More Village Idiot Reviews, The Diary Of An Expectant Father, and The Diary Of a Hapless Father have all done OK. All were put out with the hope that they just wouldn’t lose me money, which they haven’t, and the ones I’ve just mentioned all paid for themselves within the first month, (except for Dating In The Dark: sometimes love just pretends to be blind, which took two, but it’s a longer book).

I’ve since experimented with box sets, or boxed sets; I don’t know which one is correct, but I have put them out and they’ve worked. I did decide something about pricing early on, and that was that I wasn’t going to be flogging 100k words for $1.99 when I could write something tight, for 30k and get the same money; as a result, most of my books are shorter than people’s who’ve got a deal. I don’t think this takes away from them, though. DITD is 51k, so is a novel, and it works. It’s my longest self-published work. I suppose in a way there is a reason why I am not big on fluff and filler; I don’t need to be, I’ve no one telling me that I need to submit between 70 and 90k, so I don’t, it’s as simple as that. I can also get more product out there if I stick to the lower word count. That isn’t to say if a story needed it, I wouldn’t go further; I’m working on DITD2 at the moment and it’s going to go over … how far? I don’t know yet, as I’m still working on it and I let the story dictate to me when it’s done. I don’t plan that much.

I’ve put all my books into paperback and although I haven’t sold that many, I think it adds something to the Amazon page when there is a choice. DITD will soon be an audiobook too and again, the deals been done, with the view of more to come if it works. That is something I’m really excited about as I listen to more books than I read.

People ask me lots of times, what’s your secret. There isn’t one. I’ve done the same have others have done and people have liked my work. I would say to anyone thinking of self-publishing though, put some time, money and hard work into your project, if you don’t you can’t expect anyone else to. (Well, hopefully, it won’t be hard work for the reader, but you know what I mean.) One thing I’ve learnt is that I don’t always need to make my own mistakes. If I see someone run across the road while a lorry's coming, I won’t do that. Likewise if I see someone link-dropping their book every time they comment, I won’t do that either. In fact, in recent months, I’ll only post my paid for books links once, then I’ll only share the free ones on Facebook. Maybe I’m going about that wrong, but I would much rather give people I know the books for nothing than charge them, then expect them to share the link when it goes free. I’d be pissed off if someone did that to me. Maybe not once, but I’ve now got ten products.

I’m lucky enough to have people contact me on Facebook to tell me how much they enjoyed reading something of mine. This is something I never thought would happen. It’s nice, though, and I always try and give people who take the time to contact me something for free. There really has been little more to my success than writing a book people wanted to read, investing my time (even when I’d much rather have been talking about writing than doing it), my money, and being nice to people, both fans and the people who work for me.

So KDP Select? Yep, I use it. Have done for almost a year and it seems to work, although – and this is the hard thing to understand – a successful free promotion (where you give your books away for free on Amazon) actually costs money. With all the free books that are out there the grabber won’t find my little effort if they’re just browsing, so I rely on their favourite website to email them and tell them about it, and that costs. However, I’ve seen the results, so it’s something I’ll continue to do until I don’t.

I’ve learnt so much over the last year, It’s like being a project manager when you’ve got three guys doing four or five jobs for you, giving feedback on work is something I struggle with if I’ve not made myself clear in the first place, however it all just comes down to being nice about it and working with people rather than moaning or placing blame. One thing overall that I’ve learnt is that dialogue helps most things. Not speaking doesn’t. The other thing I’d like to say is that most of my problems on this front have been my own, where I’ve been trying to do too many things at once and don’t explain myself well enough rather than anyone that I’ve worked with. I’m surprised they all put up with me, to be honest.

There really isn’t much more to it than that. I’ll stop short of saying I’ve been lucky and go with fortunate. The reason I say this is because sitting tapping away on a keyboard at 2a.m. when everyone else is in bed doesn’t feel much like luck, it feels more like hard graft.

I don’t like to forget the people that have helped me get where I am now, which is slightly better off and slightly more tired than I’ve ever been, with a pile of books I’ve written myself. This time last year I had a pile of books that I had short stories in. so it’s nice to see all my effort sitting on my shelf.

That’s about it for now, like most things I’ve left this to the last minute and have probably forgotten about something, but if I think of anything I’ll come back to it. I wanted to write this because during the first couple of months I was desperately looking for blogs that spoke about the experience of others. If I hadn’t been so busy writing the books in the last year I might have kept one myself, but unfortunately I would never have kept it up and I knew it, so I did what I always do when I know I can’t give it my all, I didn’t bother. That’s the difference between writing a blog and writing a book, deep down inside, with the little bit of my ego that I didn’t want to tell people about, I knew I could write a book that people would like. My low self-confidence stopped me trying for a long time, but in the end, and after Dennis going, I knew it was time to start and time to prove to myself I could. What’s next to prove? I have no idea. Maybe a sitcom. There, I’ve said it now, it’s out of the little part of my brain that cares what people think.

Cheers, Pete – here's to the next 10,000! About the author. Pete is 32 and lives with his wife, Lucie, and their pet sofa, Jeff. He's been writing for just under three years and they've been pretty eventful; well, more eventful than he thought sitting on Jeff, typing, would be, anyway. First published in the Radgepacket anthology with a story he'd written during month five of his new hobby, Pete's now featured in a total of ten different anthologies and has been amongst some very fine company. (Although I've been the best in all of them, I know that because both my Mum and Jeff told me and they're both honest-to-God Christians ... possibly.) Author of comedy e-books The Village Idiot Reviews, The Office Idiot Reviews,The Idiot Government Reviews, and More Village idiot Reviews. These books sell more than he ever thought they would, and he's hooked. Dating in the Dark is Pete's first self-published novel. His traditionally published novel, So Low, So High, was published by Caffeine Nights in June 2013.Books:Diary Of A Hapless Father: months 0-3UK: http://amzn.to/17Gmx56US: http://amzn.to/1fGnsaBDiary Of An Expectant FatherUK: http://amzn.to/16wiM3QUS: http://amzn.to/14mH41aSo Low So High UK: http://goo.gl/tZqGKUS: http://goo.gl/pr3QR More Village Idiot Reviews UK: http://goo.gl/EgNHaUS: http://goo.gl/H2qdkThe Idiot Government ReviewsUK: http://amzn.to/X0oZOPUSA: http://amzn.to/WIDDPkThe Village Idiot ReviewsUK: http://goo.gl/mLyPWUSA: http://amzn.to/ROuSz5The Office Idiot Reviews UK: http://amzn.to/WI6sgaUSA: http://amzn.to/Xs8SfMDating In The Dark: sometimes love just Pretends to be blindUK: http://amzn.to/XD8y1SUSA: http://amzn.to/ZEwJHI

Julie Morrigan is a prolific crime and horror author who has penned two novels, Convictions and Heartbreaker, and two short story collections, Gone Bad and The Writing on the Wall. She earned a Spinetingler Award nomination for her story 'Watching', and her work has appeared on numerous 'Best of 2011' lists around the web. Recently, we had a conversation about the world of writing and e-publishing.

Chris Rhatigan: How did you start writing?

Julie Morrigan: The years before I could read were very frustrating. I can remember hounding my mother to read to me, and staring at words, willing them to make sense. Once I could read for myself, regular trips to the library were an absolute must, and when I finally got my tickets to the senior library, it was like getting the keys to the kingdom. All those books …

I couldn’t tell you exactly when I started writing, because it seems to me I always have. It’s as natural as breathing. I can tell you when I first decided to write a novel, though. I was seven, it was the start of the school holidays—six weeks of freedom—and a friend’s mother had just given us an unwanted typewriter. It was a lovely old Imperial, big, heavy keys, hard on the fingers, and it was just crying out to be used to write a story about ponies.

I learned some valuable lessons from that first attempt. And I still have the typewriter.

CR: When did you turn to crime writing? Did you have a pony noir story as a small girl?

JM: Sadly no pony noir tales, but my favourite stories as a youngster were Enid Blyton’s Famous Five and Secret Seven adventure stories. I was also a huge fan of Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys and The Three Investigators. And I remember being shocked when I discovered that not everybody wrote.

I wrote regularly for years. I wrote snippets and poems and stories and none of it looked like the sort of stuff anyone else would ever want to read. When I started writing ‘seriously’, one of the things I tried to do was to write the kind of stories the women’s magazines published, because they published so many; but I couldn’t do it. (Still trying: still can’t.) I sent some short stories off to a writing magazine for ‘assessment’. They were apparently ‘disturbing’.

My non-fiction writing was doing well, I was writing training materials, user guides, I had a couple of business books published, but I had pretty much given up on writing fiction.

Then I found Bullet magazine, and there they were – people who wrote the kind of stuff I wanted to write. I bought all the back issues and tore through them. When the next issue came out, I had not one, but two stories in it, having sent two to the editor thinking that doubled my chances of getting one in.

I also discovered ezines such as Flashing in the Gutter, Powder Burn Flash and Flash Pan Alley. I started getting some stories out and about and, to my surprise and delight, people seemed to like them. It seemed that ‘disturbing’ was ‘good’, provided the right people were reading my stuff. That was about six years ago and it was a catalyst for my fiction writing.

CR: Convictions is the story of the long-term impact of the kidnapping of a girl. We learn about how it affected her father, mother, sister and a social worker/cop—you focus on the ripple effects of a crime, which makes this book very different from most police procedurals. Why did telling the story this way appeal to you?

JM: At its heart, Convictions is about the same thing all my stories are about: people. For me, the best stories, the ones I can identify with and lose myself in, are about characters I’m interested in and/or care about, and it doesn’t matter whether they are in outer space or an inner city, past, present or future, if they live and breathe on the page, I want to know their story.

The starting point for Convictions was an image I had of a frightened girl looking out of a car window as she was being driven away. I realised she was looking back at her sister, and that what had happened was her sister’s fault. I wondered how a person would live with that kind of guilt, how it would warp and colour their existence. I was interested in how people would treat the girl who escaped, and I wanted to explore the effects of the abduction on others who were connected to the children, or who became connected to them over time. An event is like a pebble thrown into a pond, the after effects can be far-reaching and unexpected.

I suspect the book is different to the majority of police procedurals because it was never meant to be one. The nature of the story meant that there would have to be some police involvement, but I had intended it to be minimal. However, the characters of Ruth Crinson, the Family Liaison Officer, and DI Karen Fitzgerald refused to shut up or go away, so they muscled their way onto more pages than expected. I like them, though, and I think they took the story in an interesting direction, so I don’t mind at all that they did.

CR: Who do you consider to be your literary influences?

JM: Soon after I got those tickets to the senior library that I mentioned earlier, I got really lucky: I discovered Kurt Vonnegut. Also Roger Zelazny, Edmund Cooper and a host of other people, but Kurt Vonnegut knocked me sideways. (Still does.) Needless to say, I dabbled with science fiction writing for a while.

A few years on, and I was reading James Herbert, Stephen King and Dean Koontz, and trying my hand at horror. That was followed by Ian Rankin, Ruth Rendell, and Irvine Welch, and I got into writing crime fiction.

My stories have been described as dark, gritty, scary and funny, which makes me think I must have soaked up a lot of those influences, but then – I hope – I put my own twist on things and started to develop my own style.

Finally, it wouldn’t be fair to talk about influences without giving a special mention to Jim Thompson. He’s an astonishing writer who reminds me that even when I write something I’m pleased with, I have a long, long way to go on this writing journey.

CR: You have a very distinctive style. Like other noir and horror writers, you tend toward the dark and gritty, and like a smaller set of those writers you incorporate humor into a lot of your work. What do you consider to be the hallmarks of your style?

JM: When it comes to style, the reviewers certainly seem to agree with you, describing my stuff variously as dark, gritty, scary, sad, and funny. My stories tend to explore themes such as alienation, dysfunction, the desire for instant gratification and a person’s inability to foresee the consequences of their actions. It’s possible I share a muse with Tom Lehrer, of whose work The New York Times observed: ‘Mr. Lehrer's muse is not fettered by such inhibiting factors as taste'. If there’s a story to be found, there are few places I won’t go, taking with me those readers who share my curiosity.

In essence, I just try to tell each story as honestly as I can, to the best of my ability, and without resorting to melodrama. I take a similar approach to dialogue, striving to find the voice for each character and achieve realism.

As far as humour is concerned, I find stories that are devoid of humour, even in the most desperate of circumstances, largely unrealistic. On the whole, people are funny: we love to laugh and to make other people laugh, too. Humour is one of the ways in which we cope, especially when the outlook is bleak, and in the world my characters inhabit, the outlook is frequently very bleak indeed.

CR: The title story in The Writing on the Wall is what I would think of as a classic horror story, complete with a curse and a supernatural being that likes to pile up the corpses. In your opinion, what makes a good horror story? Does it have to have certain elements?

JM: Generally speaking, I like horror to invoke two responses from me: dread and terror. Say a character I care about (let’s call her Jane) wants to get something out of the wardrobe that I know has an axe-wielding maniac hiding inside it. As Jane approaches the wardrobe and reaches out to grasp the door handle, I feel dread. If she opens the door and the axe-wielding maniac jumps out, I feel terror. If someone calls out to her and she turns away without opening the door, I feel relief – but that’s usually short-lived. The dread will quickly return, because the threat still exists and I know at some point Jane will have to face it.

There is another style of horror story I should also mention, if only because it’s the kind I tend to write. That’s the kind where, no matter how much people twist and turn to try to avoid their fate, it’s always waiting for them around the next bend. In The Writing on the Wall, Carole and her friends try desperately to thwart a curse and yet, despite their best efforts, Carole ends up doing things of which she never would have believed herself capable.

Other than that, I don’t mind whether the horror comes from buckets of blood and gore, supernatural creepiness, or stalkers and mind games, so long as it’s scary. Let’s be honest, most of us enjoy a good scare, something that makes us jump and drop the popcorn, provided we can enjoy it vicariously.

CR: You have four e-books out now. Why did you decide to go the e-book route? What are some things you've learned about releasing e-books?

JM: Going back several years, I wrote a couple of novels, went the traditional route of submitting to agents and publishers, and collected an impressive array of rejection slips. They were mostly very nice (‘I liked your story, but …’ ‘I felt I wanted to keep on reading, but …’) but they were still rejections. I did get an agent at this time, but I quickly discovered that we didn’t share the same ideals and I cancelled the contract. (Thankfully not all agents are like that one.)

For reasons I won’t go into here, I didn’t write anything much for quite a long time. Then, when I started writing again, I couldn’t face that whole cycle of submitting a piece of work, waiting months for a response, then sending it out again. Perhaps it was a subconscious thing, but other than a handful of short stories that I submitted to ezines, I started a lot of stuff but didn’t finish any of it. (Although I did write another book under traditional contract terms for my business publisher.)

At the same time, e-books were becoming increasingly popular. I didn’t like them, I didn’t see that they had any relevance to me. I liked ‘real’ books. Then I read some information that opened my mind to the possibilities and opportunities presented by e-books. Perhaps the most insightful observation made to me was that I was initially looking at e-books as a reader who would rather have a 'proper' book, and I switched to the viewpoint of a writer who wanted to have direct contact with readers. Digital self-publishing provided a route to readers that circumvented the slow-moving, soul-crushing traditional path to publication. Whereas with my business books, I was used to waiting as long as a year from delivering the finished manuscript to receiving a published copy of the book, I had published my first e-book within a month of that initial change in perspective.

The fact that I self-publish my books doesn’t mean I don’t have high standards and no matter what route a writer travels, there are still many tasks to complete before a book may be considered ready. Books must be edited and proofread so that the content is as sharp and as polished as possible. The cover must be well designed and eye-catching. The text must be properly formatted, so it reads well no matter what device the reader is using. I have an editor and proofreader, and also a cover designer, although I do my own formatting. I think it helped that I was already reasonably proficient when it came to using Word, but I took the time to learn how to do it well.

Pricing can be tricky and many people have an opinion as to what is appropriate. One thing that will influence price is the size of the work you are selling. Be honest and clear about what is for sale; nothing will anger readers more than buying what they thought was a full-length novel and finding that all they have is a short story.

Arguably the most difficult thing, and again I believe this is the case whatever route to publication is pursued, is marketing, simply making people aware that your book is out there. It doesn’t matter how good a book is, if few people know it exists, then even fewer will buy it and read it.

Different things work for different people, but the following options are generally used and some are things that I have tried: blogging, social media, local and national media, online advertising, and reviews. Marketing is the thing I like least and find most difficult, but I try to make myself do something positive to promote the books pretty much every day.

JM: Gone Bad is rather a collection of cautionary tales, isn’t it? Full, for the most part, of the sorts of people I’d cross the road to avoid and walk into a lamp post rather than make eye contact with.

Partly it’s a fascination with characters I find it hard to identify with in any way, and who do the sorts of things I’d never do. I remember someone saying that writers should be careful what they write about because it puts thoughts in people’s heads and they do things that wouldn’t have otherwise occurred to them. I think it’s the other way around: I read things in the news, see things on television, and some of it takes my breath away. Casual cruelty, bigotry, stupidity … it never ends.

On the day I’m writing this, a woman has been imprisoned for killing a ten-week-old kitten by putting it into a microwave oven and turning it on. Earlier this year, someone stole a number of items, including a laptop, then used it to take a picture of himself flaunting the stolen goods and posted it on the victim’s Facebook page. And some years ago, when a UK tabloid newspaper launched a campaign against paedophiles, a paediatrician was badly beaten by a group of people too dumb to know the difference.

I think the primary driver is most likely that bad people are more fun to write about than good people, and also make for far more entertaining stories, but I wonder if a part of it isn’t just trying to make sense of the crazies.

CR: What are you working on now?

JM: I’m just putting the finishing touches to Show No Mercy, a second collection of short crime fiction very much in the same vein as Gone Bad. I’m also busy with a horror novel, Darke. That has just been through the hands of my editor and I’m about to start work on the necessary rewrites.

Next up will be a book with the working title Street Magick. I recently wrote a rough first draft, and again, it’s a fantasy/horror novel. At this stage, I envisage Street Magick to be the first book in a trilogy, and I already have a fair idea what ground the second book will cover. It’s a project that I’m very excited about.

Also on the list of things to do is to write a full length ‘Brit Grit’ novel, in the style and spirit of the stories in Gone Bad. I think that would be a very satisfying thing to do.

Update:Show No Mercy and Darke were published pretty much as planned. They were followed by Wired (a pair of Brit Grit shorts) and Bad Times, a collection of my short crime fiction. Things didn't all go according to plan, however: Street Magick is still on the hard drive; I worked on The Last Weekend instead. (That's currently with my editor.) As for a novel in the style of Gone Bad, I haven't got to that yet, but I have published (with Byker Books) a novella, Cutter's Deal. It's the first in a planned trilogy about north-east gangster Gordon Cutter. I'm currently working on the second book in the series.

It's about a month since those fine folks at Byker Books released Best of British crime novella Cutter's Deal into the wider world, and the first reviews are in.

Walter Conley got the ball rolling: 'Morrigan doesn't need a bag of tricks. She is a first-rate storyteller. You don't notice how adept she is because you're riveted to what is happening. I like how she just sets this up and lets it play to its true and inevitable conclusion. Throughout the book, I had a growing sense of unease, of fate closing in on the protagonists – but still couldn't turn the pages fast enough.'

Darren Sant added a caveat: 'A word of warning – if you want a cosy read look elsewhere. No fancy prose here. This tale is written simply and starkly. Morrigan has never sugar-coated her writing and she has always been bold when it comes to telling it like it is. An excellent and compelling read that I read in just two sittings.'

And then Paul Brazill summed it up neatly: 'Cutter's Deal is simply a brilliant, heart-in-mouth slice of social-realist crime fiction. The real deal.'

I'm delighted with those ... and I reckon it must be time to start work on the next Cutter story. Watch this space!

Cutter's Deal is available from all Amazon stores, including UK and US.

Bad Times collects all my short crime fiction in one volume, and for the next week or so I'm selling it for the paltry sum of 77p/99c. It contains all the stories from Gone Bad, Show No Mercy, and Wired.

One of my favourite stories in the collection is 'Star':

'I was downtown in Harry’s Bar on the trail of a snitch named Benny the Weasel. Just that morning we’d found the landlord of a rundown rooming house with his brains all over his pillow, one eye staring at the ceiling, the other turned to jelly by hot lead. I figured if anyone knew who done it, Benny did.'

It's the weather for shorts in the UK at the moment, so this weekend you can help yourself to a free pair. Wired contains two short stories, each including scenes of violence, brutality and human frailty.

'Barbed Wire' — How far would you go to protect your family? Pushed to the brink, Jimmy Mitchell does what he feels is necessary; then, when he finally dares to believe it’s all over, the police knock on his door. Have Jimmy’s past misdeeds caught up with him?'Razor Wire' — As Jemma struggles to change her image from thieving tomboy to elegant sophisticate, she is driven to do desperate things to feed her new obsession. What we covet can make us reckless; but is it really worth dying for?

If Wired is your sort of thing, you might also enjoy Cutter's Deal, a novella published by Byker Books.

Mac is an old school crime boss, and getting on in years. Cutter is newer to the game, a sociopath with big ambitions. While Mac has an underlying sense of right and wrong, Cutter cares about no one but himself. People are his to use, and when they’re no use anymore — or when he’s broken them — he casually discards them with no thought for the damage done.

When his world collides with that of a decent, hard-working – but financially struggling – working-class family, it’s only a matter of time before somebody gets hurt.

Meanwhile, Mac is looking increasingly fragile and there’s no clear successor to take over his firm …

If you prefer your thrills with a supernatural edge, you might enjoy latest novel Darke: The Devil, The Magician and The Fool, which is also free this weekend.

World-renowned illusionist Thaddeus Darke is up against the clock: he has just three months to deliver a soul to settle the debt he owes Old Harry … the Devil himself. Not just any soul, either: it has to be the soul of someone who owes him a debt from the past. And if Thaddeus fails to deliver, the soul of his eight-year-old niece will be taken instead.

When Joe Fox’s life is turned upside-down, forcing him to return to the UK, he’s keen to catch up with his old school friend Thaddeus Darke. But it soon becomes clear to him that something is amiss. Why has Thaddeus stopped performing magic? Why has he shut himself away in his cliff-top mansion? And what is his true relationship with his manager, Harry?

As the story unfolds and the danger increases, Thaddeus realises that he has no choice but to go back to the crossroads to strike another deal with Harry. The stakes are high, there's everything to play for, and there'll be the Devil to pay if the game is lost.

Bob was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, head bowed. His voice was muffled by the hood. The rope was cutting into his wrists, the skin abraded, but for all it was painful, it was the least of his worries.

Mac sighed audibly, almost theatrically. ‘What am I to do, Bob? What choice have you left me with?’

Gambling debts. Mac knew. ‘You should have come to me if you were in trouble. Haven’t I always seen you right?’

‘I know, Mac, I know. And I wish I had. If I could turn the clock back … I was going to pay it back, though. Every penny.’

‘You know as well as I do that once you start down that road, you don’t stop. You never pay it back. It only ends when you get caught.’

‘I was desperate.’

Mac could imagine how Bob must have felt. Trapped. Scared. Caught between a rock and a hard place, his bookie at his back chasing him for money, this confrontation with Mac always just a step ahead. Inevitable.

‘You should have come to me,’ Mac repeated.

Bob was sweating, and it had nothing to do with the hood or the fact that it was summer. It was freezing in the warehouse, kneeling on concrete, the wind blowing in off the river robbing the night of any heat it might have held.

He knew he’d been stupid, but he and Mac went back, right back to school days. Fifty years they’d been friends. He and Jeanie were godparents to all three of Mac and Marjorie’s kids. He’d kept Mac’s secrets, covered for him with Marjorie when he was playing away from home, given him an alibi whenever the coppers were breathing down his neck so close that he’d needed one. Fifty years watching each other’s backs. You didn’t throw that away over a bit of money. And it wasn’t like Mac couldn’t afford it.

Bob figured he was just trying to teach him a lesson, to scare him into never doing anything like it again. And he wouldn’t. He’d get help. There was an organisation, Gamblers Anonymous, like AA but for folk addicted to betting. For Bob, it was the dogs. He’d had one good win and it had been his downfall. After that he was always chasing the next one, always believing it would turn around, telling himself that after one more good win he’d stop. The trouble was, to get a good win, he had to put on a good bet, and his money had run out.

Mac would probably let Big Liam finish what he started when he punched Bob to the floor in the club, dragged him outside and threw him in the back of the van, then tied his hands and put that stinking bag over his head. It had only been lifted once since: to let him see that Mac was waiting for him when they got to the warehouse.

Mac might let Liam break something, make sure the message got across loud and clear to anyone else with designs on his millions: not even family get away with it. Bob shuffled on the concrete floor, the cold seeping into his old knee joints. He’d suffer for this. The arthritis was biting at him anyway and this would just make things worse. He heard Mac moving around behind him, stamping his feet and rubbing his gloved hands together. He couldn’t hear Big Liam, but he knew he was there, standing still and solid as a rock.

Liam didn’t say much. Liam listened. And obeyed.

‘You bloody fool,’ said Mac.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bob.

‘Sorry doesn’t do it, not for this. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

Bob heard the sorrow in Mac’s voice, and the determination, and adrenaline surged through his veins. Realisation hit him hard as fear wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed, robbed him of breath and stopped his tongue.

‘I can’t let it go, Bob, you must see that. You betrayed me.’ Mac walked over to where Liam was standing, the footsteps heading away from Bob. Then he came back and stood behind him. ‘It’ll be quick and clean,’ said Mac, ‘and I’ll do it myself. That’s the best I can do.’

‘Mac, no!’ Bob struggled to accept it. His childhood friend. He had never truly believed, not deep down, that it would ever come to this. ‘I’ll pay back every penny, with interest. I’ll sell the house. You can have it all, everything I own.’ He was tripping over the words in his haste to get them all out, to find the ones that would change Mac’s mind before it was too late.

‘Not good enough.’

Bob felt the barrel of the gun touch the back of his head and he whimpered. A small part of him still hoped Mac was just trying to scare him. He felt his bladder give and the fear was tinged with shame.

‘It’s not personal, Bob, you know that. I’ll miss you myself. But I can’t have people thinking I’m an easy touch or that I’ve gone soft.’

‘Mac—’

‘I’ll take care of Jeanie,’ said Mac, as the shot from the gun echoed through the warehouse. Bob crumpled to the floor and Mac put a second round in his head. The silence that followed was deafening.

Without speaking, Mac handed the gun to Big Liam and they walked out of the old warehouse. He nodded and Liam jumped in the van to drive back to the club. Mac’s driver stood by the rear door of the car and he opened it when he saw the men coming. Mac slumped in the back seat and the driver shut the door and climbed into the front.

‘Back to the club?’ he asked, watching Mac in the rear view mirror. Mac nodded and he fired the engine.

In the back of the car, Mac pushed the button to raise the screen between him and the driver. Opening a small cabinet, he took out a cut crystal glass and a flask and poured himself a scotch, then sat back in the seat, the leather soft as butter, cradling his form. As the car was guided expertly through the darkened streets, Mac brooded. No one knew what it was like to be him. No one understood the responsibility, the loneliness. The darkness inside.

Back at the club, the door was opened for him and Mac stepped out into the night air. Liam at his back, he walked into the club, up the stairs and into the bar. His men waited. He looked at them through blue eyes as cold as ice, taking in each face, seeing the respect, the fear.

‘Bob has retired from the firm,’ he said. ‘Someone organise flowers for Jeanie.’

Behind Blue Eyes heavily influenced Cutter's Deal, in which Mac plays a pivotal role. Cutter's Deal is published by Byker Books and is available for Kindle from all Amazon stores, including UK and US.

When Byker Books asked if I was interested in writing a novella for the Best of British series, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss: there are some great books in the series from some cracking writers.

What to write, though? I thought about it for a wee while and then a character from a previous short story popped into my head.

Mac was an old school crime boss, and getting on in years, too. I wondered who the new players might be, what might happen if Mac was out of the game … and Cutter was born.

Cutter is bad to the bone, a sociopath with big ambitions. While Mac has an underlying sense of right and wrong, Cutter cares about no one but himself. People are his to use, and when they’re no use anymore — or when he’s broken them — he casually discards them with no thought for the damage done.

When his world collides with that of a decent, hard-working – but financially struggling – working class family, it’s only a matter of time before somebody gets hurt.

Meanwhile, Mac is looking increasingly fragile and there’s no clear successor to take over his firm …

I'm delighted that Darke has now been published and is making its way out in the world dressed in a cracking Steven Miscandlon cover.

The book started its life back in 2004 when I began writing a story about a stage magician called Zak Black who’d swapped his soul in exchange for the ability to do real magic. The first draft was about 120,000 words long.

The story sat around for years, was occasionally tinkered with or had scenes rewritten, but it went nowhere. Then the year before last I picked it up again and decided to have another go at it. I must have rewritten the opening chapters three or four times and I still wasn’t happy with them.

Last year was a tough year. Without dwelling on it, I was poorly for a while and couldn’t focus on writing. I got some stuff done, but not this book. Cheerfully come the autumn things started looking up and I got stuck into the story again. Zak Black became Thaddeus Darke and something like ten characters, both major and minor, bit the dust. I must have cut about 100,000 words of the original draft: only a few scenes remain from that version of the story, and they have been comprehensively rewritten. And I finally got the opening scenes in a shape I was happy with.

Darke is much shorter and, I feel, more focused than the original story was. In this case, less is definitely more. See what you think.

Chapter 1

‘For pity’s sake, Harry!’

‘Pity is not something for which I am renowned, Thaddeus.’

Thaddeus Darke put his head in his hands, frustration getting the better of him.

‘Give me what I am due, or I will take something from you.’ Harry’s words were measured, his tone implacable.

‘I can’t give you what I don’t have.’

‘You were the worst of investments, Thaddeus. You’ve been an enormous disappointment to me.’

‘So cut me loose. I’m obviously not worth the trouble I put you to.’

‘You owe me,’ Harry repeated. ‘I want a soul, and not just any soul. I want the soul of someone who cares something for you, someone who thinks of you with gratitude and affection. I want you to sacrifice someone to me, to make up for your otherwise shockingly poor performance.’

‘It hasn’t been that poor. You’ve been paid, over the years.’

‘I have not been paid enough.’

‘Harry, there’s no one left. You drove them all away.’

‘You drove them all away.’

‘Either way, they’re gone.’

‘Does no one owe you?’ prompted Harry. ‘Is there really not one single person who is in your debt?’

Thaddeus was about to repeat himself, to say that no, there really wasn’t, but then he remembered. He looked up at Harry. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe there is. But it’ll take time. I need to draw him to me.’

‘Today is the vernal equinox. You have until the summer solstice to make sacrifice. That’s three months. One season.’ Harry stared at Thaddeus for a long moment. ‘And you had better deliver, or you will live to regret it.’

‘I’ve lived to regret many things, Harry. One more may be neither here nor there.’

‘Oh, this regret will be noteworthy, believe me. Deliver or else.’

‘Or else what?’

Harry smiled. ‘Or else I will take Abigail in lieu of payment.’

Thaddeus went cold. ‘Three months,’ he said to Harry. ‘I’ll have something for you. For God’s sake leave my niece alone.’

‘For God’s sake? Since when did He have anything to do with our arrangements?’

‘Just leave her alone.’

‘I will, for now. What happens later is in your hands.’

***

Later, after Harry had left, Thaddeus Darke sat in a wing-backed leather chair in front of a huge picture window. No lamps burned in the house and the moonlight cast his features in stark relief, made pits of his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. He had an unobstructed view of the North Sea in front of him, a lit cigarette in his hand, and a glass of whisky on the table at his side. He watched the moonlight as it played on the water, a bright, silver path cutting through the blackness, and he thought about Joe Fox. Wondered how long it would take him to get in touch. Thaddeus didn’t want to push too hard, but he had only a limited time to play with; he couldn’t afford to wait forever.

He closed his eyes and murmured some words, made a sign in the air in front of his face and gave things just a little … push. Then he sat back and smoked his cigarette, drank his whisky, watched the silver ribbon ripple atop the restless sea. By the time he had stubbed out the cigarette and set down the empty glass, Joe Fox was dreaming about his old friend Thaddeus Darke. And for now, those dreams were good ones.

***

‘So you know this Thaddeus Darke then, do you?’ asked the taxi driver as he drove along the coast road.

‘Yes, we were at school together.’ Joe Fox was still dizzy at how swiftly circumstances had brought him back to the UK, and yet the chance to catch up with his old friend was a welcome one. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘I haven’t seen him in ages.’

‘Neither has anyone else.’

The driver indicated when he saw the turning he wanted. The road dipped and the car slowed as it approached ten-foot high, elaborate wrought iron gates. Woven into the design was the word ‘Temperance’. A wall extended in either direction then curved towards the cliff edge, marking the extensive boundary of the property. The gates opened to let the car pass and Joe turned in his seat and watched them close behind him, swinging silently and majestically shut as if by an act of will.

‘I wonder how they work,’ the driver said, as he pulled up outside the large gothic mansion.

Joe paid the cabbie then got out of the car. The driver did a U-turn and gave a wave as he headed back down the drive. Joe watched as the gates swung open once more to let him through, then closed to shut out the world.

***

The doorbell tolled like a harbinger of sorrow, stirring the still air of the house and shattering the early evening silence. Thaddeus Darke looked at his wristwatch: his guest was on time. Not seeing that as a reason why he himself should hurry, he took a final draw on his cigarette before stubbing it out in the large crystal ashtray on the table at his side then, having let the smoke out of his lungs in a steady stream, picked up his glass and drained the last of the whisky it held before striding to the front door and throwing it open.

‘Joe, it’s good to see you again. Welcome to Temperance.’ He held his hand out and Joe Fox clasped it immediately. Thaddeus’s handshake was cool and firm, his long, slender fingers familiar from the close-up work Joe had seen years before in the school playground and more recently on his television screen.

‘It’s good to see you too, Thaddeus. It’s been a long time.’

Thaddeus stood back and ushered Joe in, closing the door behind him. ‘Come on through,’ he said. He led Joe into a room on the opposite side of the house where a huge window looked out over the North Sea.

Joe stopped and stared. ‘My God, Thaddeus, that’s a hell of a view.’

‘Isn’t it? I never tire of it. I love the sea.’

‘How long have you lived here now?’

‘Oh, about seven years, I think.’

‘Brings it home just how long I’ve been away. Seven years, and this is my first visit here,’ said Joe. ‘Mind you, the family always preferred to come and visit me in Spain, make a bit of a holiday of it. I don’t think I’ve been back since I came to see you at the Albert Hall.’

‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘Beer if you’ve got it.’

‘Coming up. Take your coat?’ Joe took his cigarettes out of his pocket and shrugged off his jacket. He handed it to Thaddeus, then turned his gaze back to the window. It was a clear day, fresh and bright, and he could see along the coast as far as Tynemouth to the north and Seaham in the south. When Thaddeus came back with a couple of bottles of beer and some glasses, Joe was still gazing out to sea. Thaddeus set everything down on a table and poured first one glass of beer, which he handed to Joe, then a second for himself. That done, he tipped his glass in salute. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘Cheers.’

They sat down in chairs that faced the incredible view, the low table between them. Thaddeus produced a packet of cigarettes and offered them to Joe, and they lit up.

‘You found the place all right then.’

‘I got a taxi, the driver knew where to come.’ Joe drew on his cigarette. ‘Let’s face it, though,’ he said, exhaling smoke, ‘I’d have found it easily enough anyway. Temperance is something of a landmark.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘It’s an amazing house. How on earth did you get permission to build here?’

Thaddeus shrugged. ‘I applied and there was no objection. It’s not like I was building an eyesore, after all.’

‘True.’ The house was almost a part of the landscape, barely visible from the road due to the topography of the land and the cliffs. It was three storeys high on the landward side and four where it looked out to sea, the basement level having been fitted into a natural rock ledge. The seaward side was edged by turrets, round and ethereal, topped with pointed copper roofs turned verdigris by the elements. ‘How did the builders manage to cut into the cliff and get the foundations in, so close to the edge?’ Joe asked. ‘It must have been a hell of a challenge.’

‘I believe so, but I hired the best.’

‘Even so, to build a house in this location—’

‘Would you like the guided tour?’ asked Thaddeus.

Joe nodded. ‘Definitely.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out and got to his feet. ‘Lead the way.’

***

If that has whetted your appetite, then you can download a longer sample free of charge from Amazon. And if you like that, the book is currently just £1.27/$1.99. Sincere thanks to everyone who checks it out. I hope you enjoy it.

'Doing it for the bairns' is a new, previously unpublished story inspired by a photograph I took a few years back. The sharp-eyed among you will notice that although the story is set in Newcastle, the pic was taken in Glasgow.

Doing it for the bairns

‘Look at the state of him,’ muttered Bill. ‘That Santa suit’s all wrong and his boots look like wellies. And what’s with the flag? It looks bloody stupid.’ ‘Take no notice,’ said John. He tucked the elastic of his long white beard under his wig, pulled it back into place and put his red and white hat on. ‘He’s a daft shite.’ He took a slurp of coffee. ‘Merry Christmas, Santas,’ said Callum as he sauntered over to the coffee hut. ‘How are we all today?’ Bill glowered. John ignored him. ‘All right, mate,’ said Mick. ‘How’s you?’ ‘I’m good, big man, I’m good.’

‘What’s the flag on your back for, like? I haven’t seen a flag like that before.’

Callum grinned. ‘It’s the flag of Shetland. I’m from there originally. Left when I was just a wean, but I still love the place.’ He drained his coffee cup and dropped the empty in a bin. ‘I’m away to the Monument in a minute, I’m collecting up there today.’

‘Aye? I was there yesterday, I did canny, like,’ said Mick.

‘Good to hear. See yous later, down the Duke?’

‘Aye, we’ll be there,’ said Mick. He turned to Bill and John as Callum walked away. ‘What’s the matter with you two?’

‘He’s all right, man. Just ’cos he’s a Jock doesn’t make him a bad lad. Not like he’s a fucking southerner, is it?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well then, chill, marra. Cool ya jets.’ Mick looked at his watch. ‘Although on second thoughts, move it. Time we weren’t here, there’s shoppers to guilt trip.’ He shook the collection bucket he held, a picture of a crying child on the front. ‘Howay. There’s the bairns to think of.’

***

Early evening, several Santas were crowded around a table in the Duke of Wellington. ‘Doesn’t seem right, not standing at the bar,’ said John. ‘I couldn’t stand another minute. Me dogs are barking. Hard work, this collecting lark.’ ‘Aye, man, but worth it, eh? Think of the good it’ll do,’ said Callum, coming into the pub last as usual. ‘Good day, big man?’ ‘Aye, canny,’ said Mick. ‘Yersel’?’ Callum nodded. ‘Can’t complain.’ ‘Where’ve you been till this time?’ asked John. ‘Dropping the cash off back at the ranch. Got to do what the boss says.’ John looked at the picture on Callum’s collecting bucket, different to the one on the buckets carried by him, Bill, and Mick. ‘I hope you kept enough to get a round in,’ he said. ‘Oh aye, nae bother, big man. What’s everybody having? Billy boy?’ ‘Nowt off you, you Jock bastard. And don’t you Billy boy me!’ ‘Come on, man, it’s Christmas! We’re all on the same side here, all daein’ the right thing for charity, for the weans.’ Callum held his hand out. ‘Come on, shake on it, big man. Nae hard feelins.’ Bill looked at the outstretched hand then back at Callum’s face, then he pulled his right fist back and threw a punch. John grabbed him to stop him throwing another and he’d telegraphed the first one so far ahead that Callum had dodged it easily, although he dropped his collecting bucket and staggered back against the bar, scattering drinkers as he did. ‘Hey, pack it in or you’re out, the lot of yous,’ shouted the barman. ‘I’ll not have any trouble.’ ‘Sorry, man,’ said Mick, ‘it’s all right now. Just a bit of a misunderstanding.’ He turned to Callum. ‘You’d best go, like. We’ll calm him down.’ Without a word, Callum picked up his collecting bucket and walked out. ‘Fuck’s sake, Bill, the lad was trying to buy us a pint! What is it with you and him?’ John let go of Bill and stepped away from him. ‘It’s not him so much as where he’s from.’ He scrubbed his face with his palm. ‘The first wife fucked off with a sweaty sock eighteen months back. Thought he was me mate, then the two of them bugger off to Jockland leaving me wi’ two bairns and a load of debt. Last Christmas was bloody miserable, man. Hardly any presents and I couldn’t afford to put the heating on half the time.’ ‘That’s harsh, but it’s hardly that fella’s fault.’ ‘Even so—’ ‘Keep a cool head. Just two days to go. Think of the bairns.’ Bill sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. ‘Aye, you’re right. I’m sorry, man. Got to focus on the little ’uns.’ ‘You want another beer?’ Bill nodded, and he sat down again as John headed off to the bar. He saw something lying on the floor and picked it up; it was Callum’s charity ID card. Bill threw it under the seat he was on, flipped it so it went right back to the wall. See how the fucker liked that.

***

Next day, Bill was collecting up at the Monument when a policeman pulled him to one side. ‘Summat the matter, mate?’ Bill asked. ‘Can I see your ID, sir?’ Bill fished in his pocket and pulled out a laminated card, then held it up for the copper to see. As the policeman took it and scrutinised it, Bill looked past him, his expression impassive. ‘Just routine,’ plod said, handing back Bill’s ID. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir.’ ‘There’s some clown with a flag on his back you might want to check out.’ ‘Is he a Santa Claus an’ all?’ ‘Aye. In a suit with a blue and white flag on the back, collecting bucket with a picture of a bairn in a wheelchair on it.’ ‘And you think he might be dodgy?’ Bill shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say about that, like, but he’s not from round here.’ The copper walked away, talking into his radio as he went, and Bill turned back to the main thoroughfare, started shaking his bucket as he mingled amongst the Christmas shoppers. Coins rattled down the chute, through the slot and into the space below. The odd person tucked a note in and the bucket started to feel heavy.

***

‘Hey, did you hear about Callum?’ John asked as they crowded around the table in the Duke that evening. ‘No, what’s that?’ Bill asked. ‘He got taken away by a copper this afternoon. Mick saw him go.’ ‘What was the problem?’ ‘Couldn’t produce his ID. Zero tolerance for con merchants round here, man.’ ‘Just as well ours are the business, eh!’ ‘Aye,’ John nodded. ‘Just one more day to go, an’ all. Been a good run, I’ve done really well out of it.’ ‘Me an’ all, spot on, man. Best idea ever.’ Bill’s foot knocked against the bucket, tucked under the table, and it made a satisfying clunk. Kate would be over the moon.

***

Bill got home late on Christmas Eve, staggered in half cut and laden down with shopping. Callum hadn’t been spotted all day and so he’d had a couple of extra beers to celebrate sticking it to a sweaty sock. ‘Where the hell do you think you’ve been?’ Kate hissed at him as he walked into the sitting room. ‘I’ve been worried sick in case something had happened!’ ‘Sorry, pet.’ ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ ‘The battery died.’ ‘And you couldn’t use a payphone to tell us you’d be late? I thought you were locked up, like that Scottish bloke—’ ‘I’m home now and everything’s topper. Now howay, pet, you cannat get vexed with Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.’ He grinned at her. ‘Come here and gis a kiss.’ He dropped the parcels and pulled her to her feet then grabbed her in a bear hug. She shrieked as he covered her in kisses. ‘Hush,’ he said, putting a finger to his lips, ‘you’ll wake the bairns.’ ‘It’s that beard, it’s horrible. It’s got things stuck in it, man, it stinks.’ Bill laughed and started singing, ‘I saw mammy kissing Santa Claus.’ Kate shook her head. ‘Shut up, you daft beggar. Come on, let’s get them presents wrapped.’ ‘Did you get the shopping in?’ She nodded. ‘The fridge is bursting at the seams. We’ll get this done then have a couple of cans to celebrate.’ ‘Champion.’ They set to and wrapped the gifts, piling them under the tree. When they were all done, there was a heap of presents for each child, with gifts for Bill and Kate, too. She snuggled in to him and they stood and looked at it all; the new tree with its baubles and twinkly lights, the gifts in their colourful wrappings, the warm glow from the candles and the fake logs on the gas fire. ‘You’ve done us proud, pet. It all looks lovely. It’ll be a Christmas to remember, this one, like.’ Bill was about to agree when there was a knock at the door. ‘Get them cans,’ he said, ‘I’ll just see who this is.’ He opened the door to be faced by the same copper he’d spoken to at the Monument a couple of days earlier. There was another one standing next to him and neither looked very Christmassy. ‘What’s up lads? Want to come in for a can?’ Bill said, trying to front it out. ‘Don’t play silly buggers, man.’ ‘I’m not. It’s Christmas Eve. Howay in and have a bevvy.’ ‘William Smith, I am arresting you on suspicion of impersonating a charity collector. You do not—’

***

‘How did you find out?’ Bill asked the copper as he was being driven to the cop shop. ‘I never would have if you hadn’t sent us after that fella with the flag on his back. He’d lost his ID, but he checked out. Then I got interested in you. Didn’t take long to find out that there was no such charity as the one you were collecting for.’ Bill thought of the three kids asleep upstairs back at the house, his two boys and Kate’s little girl, warm and safe and looking forward to Christmas. ‘Charity begins at home, mate.’ ‘Zero tolerance for con merchants round here.’ ‘Oh, howay, man! I was only doing it for the bairns!’ ‘Aye? Tell it to the magistrate in the morning.’ The clock on the dash showed ’00:00’. The copper looked at him in the rear view mirror. ‘Merry Christmas, Santa,’ he said. Bill rolled his eyes. ‘Ho, ho, fucking ho.’